


something terrible and monstrous

by metonymy



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabble Sequence, Fae & Fairies, Fair Folk, Multi, a drabble is 100 words and this is a hill I will die on, war and peace canon knowledge not needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 04:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11456331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metonymy/pseuds/metonymy
Summary: There are many things Anatole and Hélène do not seem to understand. There's a very good reason for that.





	something terrible and monstrous

As Andrey leaves for the war, he places a pendant about Natasha's neck. It was passed down through his family, the jewel consecrated by a wise woman. This is proof against being charmed, he tells her. One never knows in times of war what powers may be at play. And he wants her to be safe while he is gone.

Marya clucks when she sees the pendant about her goddaughter's neck. It might have had power in its day, she thinks, but they would do better to trust to God and Christ now. 

(They are both right, and both wrong.)

…

When Pierre meets Hélène, he chooses to believe she sees somewhat more to him than his sudden fortune. That she might love him, in her own strange way. 

He's right, but not how he thinks.

The taste of his misery and self-loathing is delicious to her, bitter and smoky upon the tongue like whiskey aged in a rotting cask. She twines it about her fingers and laughs. When she casts an unimpressed eye at his straining waistcoat, when she pours the dregs of another bottle of wine into his cup, her eyes shine and her tongue flickers over her lips.

…

It's not just age that has changed the Prince so very much. Mary knows this in her bones. Sometimes she thinks she can see the demons flitting about his head, shrunk down through wild magic. Sometimes she thinks it must be the women who come to their house and dally with her father, that the light in their eyes isn't greed but the fires of Hell. 

She prays to God and Christ his son, hoping the incense will purify the air of their house. She prays for deliverance for her father, safety for her brother - and forgiveness, for her doubt.

...

Anatole glitters when he walks into the theater. There is something wild about him, the arrogant tilt of his head, the sense that at any moment he might leap upon an amiable matron and tear into her throat. The air that pours in with him is cold in contrast to the overheated bowl of the theatre and carries something electric in its scent. Like the flash of lightning striking a tree, before it burns.

How intoxicating, Natasha thinks. Sonya shivers beside her, seeing the light reflected from the stage onto Anatole's handsome blond head, and thinks of a hunter's moon. 

…

The trouble with humans, Anatole thinks to himself, is that they have so many silly rules. Rules for how time should work, one achingly slow minute after another. Rules about women and how many one may marry, about men and how they ought not to bed each other, about the proper relations between a brother and sister, about their funny tokens called money and how one ought not to give it away like water slipping down a stream. 

But they are such fun that he can never resist them for long. Especially not when they're as lovely as Natalya Rostova. 

…

Hélène is careful. She does not touch the pendant. Old as it is, it still bears some power, and it makes her frantic as she weaves her spell around Natasha. Instead she offers a new necklace, jewels glimmering like the stars and the chains gossamer light. Even this small magic bears some of her power and her love for Anatole, and Hélène smiles when she sees a new flame kindle in Natasha's eyes. So charming, she murmurs, skating her fingertips along Natasha's lovely bare shoulders. She meets Natasha's eyes in the glass.

Perhaps her brother will share his new plaything. 

...

Sonya knows that something must be done. She knows that she must be the one to do it. She sees the hectic flush on Natasha's cheeks and the unnatural light in her eyes and knows that reason will not stand against the enchanting words of such creatures. An elopement would be bad enough; Sonya cannot let her friend lose her immortal soul.

She lays salt and iron at the doorstep. She's not entirely sure it will work, not sure they will stand against the wild magic of Anatole and his uncanny driver. But in the end, the troika careens away.

…

Dolokhov has been with the Kuragins for some time now. Trying to reckon exactly how long makes his head hurt, so he doesn't do it often. Easier to throw himself into their social whirl with abandon, to drink and dance and shoot and forget himself. 

Occasionally his mind clears, like surfacing from deep water and taking a huge breath of air. He knows Natasha doesn't deserve the same fate as him - she's so young, so good, close to Sonya. He has to try.

But when he can't talk Anatole out of it, well, he might as well enjoy the ride.

…

The violins shriek as the troika careens down the boulevard, the horses' hooves barely seeming to touch the ground. Balaga keeps his seat. He will always keep his seat. A firm hand on the reins, a word to his horses, a cry that's more howl than laughter and he'll get through any scrape. 

All his boasts are true, every moonlit ride and ecstatic revel and drunken escapade that the gentlemen like to recount to their lovers. He's escaped the angels of the Lord and the soldiers of the Tsar.

After all, he's been doing this for a very long time. 

...

The sudden absence of Anatole and Hélène leaves Natasha reeling, a fog on her mind and a lock around her tongue. A burning need in her bones to find Anatole, to beg him to take her away, to hear him explain. To have Hélène caress her forehead and soothe her. There seems to be only one way out. 

She's not sure afterwards if it was the arsenic itself bringing her so close to death or the doctor's antidotes that purged her of their influence. But Natasha looks in the mirror and sees her face, no shadows behind her at last.

…

It's when Anatole smiles at him that Pierre finally understands. Or perhaps that is when he allows himself to truly believe what he has refused to know for some time: that his home and heart have been invaded by creatures that are not quite human. 

The smile on Anatole's face is the same as Hélène's, as if he could lap up this anger and shame and fury like a cat with cream. As if this whole disaster has been nothing but passing entertainment.

O vile and heartless brood, Pierre mutters, and knows he must rid himself of both of them. 

…

As Pierre leaves Marya Dimitrievna's house, stepping over the iron still lying there, he breathes deeply of the fresh air. He feels a lightness in his heart for the first time in days, a loosening of the bonds around his mind. The snow and ice glitter under the light of the stars, and he gazes up at the comet that burns like a brand in the sky. 

Perhaps it will burn away more than just his own foolish desires, he thinks. Perhaps it will drive out evil in the world. Perhaps all those strange creatures will flee before its light.

**Author's Note:**

> "why doesn't Anatole seem to get that bigamy is, like, a bad thing?" "well, what if it was because he was literally not human?"
> 
> Thanks to @pocky_slash for encouraging this nonsense. Fairy lore mishmashed from various sources and heavily influenced by the English ballad of Tam Lin.


End file.
